


Of All the Random Beach Bars in Santa Barbara You Walk into Mine

by outherenow



Category: Psych (TV 2006)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29419407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outherenow/pseuds/outherenow
Summary: Carlton really doesn't like Spencer.ExceptExceptOn the rare occasions he does.And, Spencer?Well, he just really really really likes Lassie. And he doesn't normally really really like people outside of Gus. And not in the same way, ok!?
Relationships: Carlton Lassiter/Shawn Spencer
Comments: 7
Kudos: 59





	Of All the Random Beach Bars in Santa Barbara You Walk into Mine

Carlton's grip on Spencer’s shoulder is always a bit too tight, and Spencer, that annoying excuse for childish antics and crazy theories that often turn out to be true, is always a little too relaxed as Carlton manhandles him about the station. 

The way Spencer doesn’t even pretend to protest as Carlton pushes him against the door of an empty interrogation room and growls at him to stay out of police business. Instead just looks up at him with blown pupils and breathing that is just a bit too fast, before flouncing off to ignore all of Carlton’s warnings that could keep the younger man safe in his stupid Psych office, away from murderers and other forms of dangerous criminals running around Santa Barbara’s streets. 

Both Guster and O’ Hara have to notice. Do notice. It’s probably not hard to miss the way Spencer gets under his skin, with the touching, and flailing, and ridiculous pet names in between 'visions’. 

But they notice different things, and thankfully they aren’t good enough friends to compare notes about how their respective work partners interact or else, Carlton probably would never have a moment of peace ever again. 

The lectures from O’Hara are fine, he thinks she only sees the antagonism, as she chides him to be nicer to the two consultants. While commiserating that yes, they can be, Shawn especially, a bit childish. But amusing and effective on more occasions than they should be. They are starting to work well as partners in the field, but Carlton’s personal life is still quite the closed book when it came to his coworker. 

Guster on the other hand, is Shawn’s best friend, his brother in everything but blood, has been for over two decades and is pretty damn observant and definitely intelligent. A skill that pales next to what ever the fuck Spencer has going on, but still definitely above average. Guster never says anything to Carlton, but his eyes follow how he and Spencer interact a bit too closely for Carlton’s comfort, and his lips tighten when Spencer gives Carlton wide easy, trusting smiles. How Spencer always calls his cell first to report something, and only calls O’Hara and flirts outrageously with her when Carlton doesn’t answer. 

*.*.*.*

Carlton has anger issues that rival or equal the soft protective streak he likes to hide and bury deep. 

Carlton has anger issues and a temper that goes with it. He knows it. His subordinates have seen it crack through and he’s definitely taken it out on O’ Hara and McNabb more than he wants to admit.

Victoria knows it, long days at work followed by overtime followed by his own need to be the best at his job, leaving their house devoid of anything resembling a happy partnership or family. The divorce leaves him oddly hollow and surprisingly relived.

His neighbors and their stupid squirrel fixation knows it.

His mother certainly knows it.

His tendency to work out his personal issues with hours in the gun range is common knowledge though no one is stupid enough to say it to his face. 

Its unprofessional, and mostly unwarranted, and it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth because ‘I’m Sorry’ are really difficult words to say. 

But he would never, has never, raised a hand to anyone outside of self defense. He’s quick to draw his weapon if needed, but spends more hours training on gun safety and usage than any of his peers on the force. He shoots only when he truly has no other choice. He’s never used unnecessary force against a suspect he’s taking into custody or a perp he’s arresting and the hypothetical day he does he hopes he turns in his badge and walks away. But he’s never going to allow himself to be that kind of man. 

But there’s Spencer, and he remembers cuffing him and pushing him against his Crown Vic on the first case almost three years ago with a tad more force than necessary for an unarmed suspect.

There’s Spencer underfoot, loud, obnoxious, brilliant and frustrating and a damned liar, in his workplace and far to often for comfort, on the edges of his personal life. Stumbling into dates and into pity filled benders at the occasional bar, ending up at the at the guy’s 13th high school reunion of all things, the circle that’s his life and the circle that is Spencer’s is becoming a venn diagram with way too much over lap. Spencer who gives as good as he gets and sometimes as cruelly as Carlton can.  
There’s Spencer who he threatens to shoot on a weekly basis, who he’s pushed into walls and doors out of anger, that thrill of control as Spencer goes lax under his hands, and badly hidden fear that the psychic is going to get himself, once again, into something dangerous, whose shoulders might even have finger print sized bruises that match Carlton’s grip.

Spencer who looks up to meet his glare with unshakable trust and arousal that Carlton has no clue how he’s earned. It’s to much and not enough, and he doesn’t even like the man, except for the fact that he does occasionally, when Spencer is quiet and serious, or worried about Guster, or makes a clever joke that gets O’ Hara to laugh after a difficult case. The moments when Spencer is real and human and not flailing around like a lunatic on speed. Or the fact that snow globe incident aside, Spencer has a knack for finding out his secrets and for some reason those secrets haven’t spread past Spencer.

*.*.*.*.*

It’s a rare Thursday afternoon that Carlton has free. He and O’Hara oddly Psych free for once, have wrapped up a B & E that turned murderous, and the Chief had kicked both of them out of the Station in hopes of avoiding even more overtime than they already had and keeping her monthly budget in check.  
Carlton’s still got that hum of adrenaline mixed with the satisfaction of a case closed with good old fashioned detective work. 

He’s also got an empty house, a living room he avoids after shooting Brimmer in it, blood stains on his wall he really aught to paint over sometime because its been almost a year now, and images of Spencer at gun point ingrained behind his eyelids each time he goes home. 

So he doesn’t, he picks a random beach bar, not one of his or any of his associates normal haunts and like always, he’s got shitty shitty luck. 

It’s mid day in off-season, still during work hours and so the place is mostly empty except for one corner of the bar.  
Because behind the exuberant crying and laughing couple standing in front of one high-top tables, is Spencer.

He’s overlooking the scene with a friendly but fake smile that doesn’t reach his eyes as he sips at a fruity looking drink in front of him. He’s tapping his fingers on the glass and table in his non stop need to always be moving. Carlton doesn’t need to taste or smell the drink it to assume its got Pineapple as a major component, and is probably just juice no booze. He’s never seen Spencer be much of a drinker, and then he tries to ignore just how much he knows about the fake psychic’s habits. 

Carlton freezes , and contemplates turning on his heel and briskly walking- not running- back to his car. 

But Spencer catches his eye as he looks around the room and Carlton awkwardly meets his gaze. Spencer is clearly assessing him, but unlike at a crime scene he doesn’t start convulsing or loudly spouting about the spirits. He just kicks out one of the bar stools slightly with a head tilt and a little shrug.  
Carlton takes as wide a berth around the obnoxious couple as he can and takes the offered seat.

“Spencer.” He says in greeting reaching for that bar menu on the table despite the fact he’s probably just going to get a scotch or a beer. 

“Lassie.” Spencer’s smile is much smaller and much more real as Carlton settles next to him. 

“Where’s Guster?”

“His ‘real job’.” Says Spencer making air quotes in disbelief. 

Carlton is about to snap back a rejoinder that at least one half of the Psych team can function as a real adult, but the crying/laughing middle age couple are now closer to the table and aware that Spencer isn’t the only onlooker anymore. 

“Shawn, is this Gus!?”

“No. Definitely not.” Growls out Carlton now turning his glare to the couple instead of Spencer. 

“Nah, this is Lassie, Lassie don’t be exactly ¼ of a snack sized bag of cool ranch Doritos with my clients here.” Spencer pauses, Carlton braces for something ridiculous, well more ridiculous than whatever Spencer just implied, “He’s the SBPD’s Head Detective. We make sweet sweet justice together against criminals.” 

“My name is Carlton.” He frowns, mentally backs up, “wait, clients?”

“Yep, and we were just wrapping up like a well crafted carne asada burrito from Del Taco, weren’t we guys?” He prompts, as to the point as Carlton has ever seen him, in his own Spencerish way. 

“Oh right! Oh, course Shawn. Let me just cut you a check for the second half of your fee and we’ll be out of here.” The woman gives both Spencer and Carlton (simply by proximity) a beaming smile, “Isn’t Shawn here the best?” 

“Oh, he’s certainly something.” His tone is cutting, and the smiles on the couple falter, but Spencer just laughs and sips at his drink and drums the table as he waits for the woman to pull out a checkbook from her purse and write out a check for two grand made out to Psych. 

“Thanks, Doreen.” Spencer says as he takes the offered check and slips it into his wallet. “You two kids, get the hell out of here.” He makes a shooing motion with his hands and the couple giggles like fucking schoolkids at his actions instead of the, at least decade and a half older than Carlton adults they should be conducting themselves in public as. Spencer winces at one spectacularly high-pitched giggle. 

After a few more fawning thanks that Spencer accepts with that fake smile and a few more charming, offbeat, yet pointed prompts for them to leave they finally head out the door. Spencer watches as they get in their car and as soon as they start backing out of their parking spot, he’s rubbing his temples and pressing his eyes closed for a moment. Carlton knows the signs of a migraine or headache, a work induced one no less, the man sitting beside him had triggered quite a few for him over the last three years. 

“Can I get you anything?” a waitress appears next to the table, the only staff member other than the sounds from the kitchen and the bored looking bartender that’s probably a college student based on the text book he has propped up next to one of the beer taps. 

“Bottle of whatever beer is on special, no light beer.” 

“You got it, and your food’ll be out soon,” she says with a nod towards Spencer. 

“Thanks.” Spencer says, still kneading the sides of his forehead with his fingers. “Appreciate it.” 

“Private Client?” 

“I had her ‘investigation’ solved in five minutes of conversation with her and a quick glance through her husband’s calendar. It took three days to convince her that, no her husband wasn’t doing the horizontal mid life crisis tango with a 24yr old party planner, but actually planning their 30th anniversary party.” 

Spencer finally stopped rubbing his forehead and went back to drumming his fingers against the table, “She cried and giggled for those three days and I didn’t even have Gus around as my steady life-sized human shield to catch all the feels she was having.”

“Smart man.”

Spencer huffs a laugh. “Yeah, he’s the one that a) took the phone consult and pre-payment and b) fostered the rest of it off on me while hiding out in swanky doctor’s offices being all drug dealer-y.” 

“I knew he was the brains of your ridiculous little operation.” 

Carlton’s carefully not pointing out that Spencer isn’t even pretending he had a psychic vision of this anniversary party. 

Maybe the spirits only visited real crime scenes. 

They both stopped for a moment as the waitress swung back by, Carlton’s beer in one hand and Spencer’s food in the other. They both waved her off with negatives when she asked if they needed anything else. 

“Made an arrest in your B & E.” It’s a statement and not a question. There’s a half hearted flick of Spencer’s fingers to his head like he’s having a vision. 

“Yeah.”

“What tipped you off that it was the cousin?”

Never failed. How did Spencer always end up five steps ahead even when he wasn’t even on the case?

“The bruising from the belt buckle we found during the autopsy.”

Spencer nods and a piece of pineapple falls off Spencer’s chicken sandwich and Spencer stares at it resting next to his fries with a slightly glassy look. 

“Can you keep an eye on my food and drink while I run out to my bike for a second? Thanks, Lassie.” Then he was out the door and messing with the saddlebags on his bike before Carlton could even reply. 

He’s back in within a minute, economy sized bottle of Excedrin migraine medicine tossed onto the table with a rattle, before he pops the cover off and takes out three of the large oblong pills.  
Carlton’s positive he’s taking more than the recommended dose, but he and Spencer are not friends, and taking OTC medicine in slightly higher doses isn’t a crime he’s legally obliged to stop someone from committing. Though he does add the info to the large file that resides in his head that’s labeled ‘Spencer’ which is an upgrade to the label ‘Idiot #1’ it used to be mentally filed as prior to Spencer clearing his name of murder. 

Spencer chows down on his food, Carlton nurses his beer and picks at the paper label of the bottle. A unwanted memory from his junior year of college, of a classmate at college telling him and the room at large, that he was sexually frustrated because he was pulling off the labels of each of his beers comes to mind. The classmate was wrong then, he had been bored and out of his element at the frat house he had somehow ended up getting an invite too. But his classmate would have been right now, 15 years later, mid afternoon at an empty beach bar, sitting next to the most frustrating human being he’s ever had the misfortune of meeting. 

He forces himself to stop messing with it and instead reaches out to steal one of Spencer’s fries. It makes Spencer smile again and turn his plate so the fries are closer to Carlton. 

“Help yourself.” He says in between bites. 

Carlton doesn’t thank him, but does help himself liberally to the fries. 

“Did you really just make four grand in three days off one client?” 

“Well as Gus likes to remind me often and loudly and at every possible opportunity, often right when I’m about to take any intriguing case for free, that we have office rent, incidentals like camera equipment and gas, not too mention case related snack stops and then paying ourselves an actual salary. Gus and I might of cleared five hundred each on this one. And of course, some months it’s like a monsoon of customers other times it’s a dry desert well, pleading for rain under a hot blaring sun. Which means Gus likes to save and plan ahead for slow months and pay our rent in advance.”

Spencer sounds horrified by the concept, but it cements Carlton’s opinion that Gus might seem like a brainwashed pushover around Shawn on the surface, but the guy apparently had a back bone and a strong sense of business. Carlton’s never wasted much time actually thinking about if Psych is a viable business, but now he’s curious and Spencer’s in a somber enough mood to be giving him answers that don’t set him on edge right away. Their office was at the beach. That had to be pricey rent. 

Carlton’s been accused by associates and dates and Victoria that he’s a bit of a cheapass. A little too tightfisted with his money. Also that he can be a bit rude on the subject, especially when splitting a check at a restaurant. He still thinks its only fair that people pay for exactly what they ordered and not portions of other people’s food, but that’s neither here nor there right now. 

“How much do you and Guster clear in a year?” 

Spencer puts down the last few bites of his sandwich, and looks at Carlton in clear amusement. It also looks like the combo of food and migraine medicine is working it’s magic on Spencer.

“When did you stop getting warrants to pull my financials?” 

“About the time you ‘communed’ with a dead man’s cat to catch a killer.”

“Yeah, hate to put a damper on things for you Lassie but Psych’s got much steadier business these days.” He finishes off the last bits of the sandwich but doesn’t stop Carlton from picking at his fries. “Gus and I make about 30 grand each after business expenses. Gus even filed our taxes. Which seemed like a lot of unnecessary paperwork that I ignored until the last second and Gus stole my motorcycle keys until I signed my half of things. But Gus insisted you’d arrest us if we didn’t.”

“Nah, I’d just arrest you. Guster doesn’t deserve that. Clearly he’s the innocent party.” 

“You know that’s right.” Spencer paused, looked away and in a strained voice continued. “But you know, Lassafrass, if you wanted to see me in handcuffs again you could just ask.”

Carlton takes a sip of his beer to wet his suddenly dry mouth at that image and then pops all the joints in his right hand, an obvious nervous tick that Spencer has seen before. 

Spencer, is thankfully not any better than him, because he’s back to drumming on the table and not looking at Carlton, instead suddenly seems very interested in two gossiping blonde women that walk in the front door. 

Carlton peels the last bits of label from his beer and finishes off his drink. 

“I think I’m going to go to the shooting range.” He says as he pulls out his wallet to cover his beer and a small tip, Spencer waves off his money and mutters ‘I got it’ still not looking at him. He puts his wallet away and stands up. “Santa Yenz allows non-members if you want to come.”

Spencer looks at him for a long moment before shrugging. 

“Sure, give me a sec to pay.” 

*.*.*.*.*

“God fucking damn, Spencer.” Carlton swears memorized by the smug look on Spencer’s face as he quickly goes through Carlton’s Smith & Wesson Model 629, his Colt Government, and then his Glock 17 with perfect grouping and speed just shy of being unsafe. 

This was a bad bad bad idea. 

He’s gaping at the younger man like an idiot. But his brain is struggling with the fact that Spencer is a very competent marksmen, and that is a very attractive feature in any person, and that if Carlton were to say, invite the man to dinner, he’d probably have no qualms against Carlton spending the whole time talking about violent unsolved cold cases in great detail. He’d probably even appreciate the dead clown story. 

“So does that answer your question on if I need any pointers?” 

“how-“ he sputters, brain still trying to catch up. 

“You worked under my dad when he was still in the force. Do you honestly think Henry Spencer’s kid wasn’t going to be forced to learn how to shoot a gun. I was like five years the first time dear old papa brought me to the range.” Spencer laughs, “but it was worth it to see the five times he tried to reach Gus. Dude screamed and dropped the gun each time he tried to pull the trigger. Dad didn’t even have a clip in. Dad had to chase him down the street once when he tried to run home. It was like watching Indy runway from a boulder but with more crying and less snakes.” 

“So why don’t you have a license to carry?” 

Spencer carefully puts down the Glock with all the skill and respect Carlton would while handling a dangerous weapon. 

“Well besides pissing off my dad? I was arrested and charged that time remember?” 

“I know every amendment made to the Federal Gun Control Act of 1968 and California’s stupid restrictive gun laws, Spencer. I also know you got a misdemeanor, a week in county, and a fine. And only because Henry insisted there be actual punishment. If you really wanted to be carrying you could.”

Spencer’s face screws up in an odd twist Carlton hasn’t seen in his face before. It’s serious and doesn’t suit Spencer at all.

“I have this thing, this belief, that if you are carrying a gun you should understand that it can be used to kill and that you are carrying it with that possibility and intent in mind. I cannot handle the responsibility of ending someone’s life. I don’t want that responsibility. Number whatever on the endless list of reasons why I never wanted to be a cop. I play a mean game of lazer tag though. Current reigning champ at Lazer Lites.” 

“You asked for a gun that time Gus was in danger at that winery.”

“I’d kill someone if it was Gus’s life on the line.”

Carlton opens his mouth to say something-anything. He’s discharged his weapon in the line of duty, in front of and for Spencer no less, but that’s his job.

“But I don’t know if I’d be able to face myself after. My brain would never let me have a moments rest.” His fingers fly to his head in typical ‘vision’ fashion. 

Carlton’s bad with words and emotions on a good day, and he wasn’t prepared for an honest and raw Spencer so he just clamps his mouth shut and moves to take Spencer’s place in the range. 

He’s excellent. But it turns out Spencer’s excellentter. Damn it that’s not even a word, now he’s thinking like the god damn fake psychic. 

They spend another two hours at the range, taking turns and just about matching each other in skill. Challenging each other to even more difficult shots each time around. Finally Carlton calls it good and hands Spencer a cleaning kit. Naturally he doesn’t need any pointers on how to clean Carlton’s prize possessions but does certainly draw the process out when he catches Carlton looking. 

“Any other guns you’d like me to polish, Lassie?” this time he’s sort of able to meet Carlton’s eyes as he makes the innuendo. 

“Shut it, Spencer.”

“How do you feel about 80’s cult classics?”

“Like they’re a waste of my time.” 

“Great, so then my place or yours for the movie marathon? What’s your snack situation like? And what are your views on Val Kilmer’s body of work. There is a wrong answer to that question. ” 

“I might own a copy of Tombstone… and Top Gun…somewhere.”

*.*.*.*.*

It turns out he doesn’t own either movie. Or if he does they’re buried in some box in the basement or the closet. Between a move after O’Hara’s attempt at a birthday party and a divorce where he definitely got the shorter end of the stick he’s a little lacking in the normal entertainment department.

Spencer’s avoiding both the couch and the bloodstains on the wall, but…

“You’ve updated your ‘most wanted’ posters.” 

“Anytime they issue new ones with updated info I exchange them out.”

“How very sensible of you.”

“Spencer.”

“Hmm.” 

“What are you doing here?”

“Remember how you ended up at my high school reunion of all things?”

“Yes.” 

“How did those mug shots go?”

“Oh fantastic, but answer the question.” 

“There was this girl there, one I'd had always liked. Crazy about. Wore her down until she finally agreed to go out with me back when I was a senior in High School. Then the night I was supposed to go out with her, I choked. Tried to force myself to go meet up with her for almost two hours. I can describe in detail everything she was wearing that night.”

“You have a chance with her now?” asks Carlton crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe. 

“Probably, I can be very charming and persuasive. And she’s still fantastic you know? Just…”

“What?”

“I wasn’t brave enough then to try something serious. I still don’t think I am now. Half the time when I handle cases like today I’m bored out of my mind and its like this itch under my skin and all thoughts tumbling together like colors in a kaleidoscope and its awful and the only cure is to jump on my bike and get the hell out of dodge, rinse wash, repeat. But you’re actually single now and I just really really like you Lassie. I don’t really really like people except Gus usually. And I have no desire to have Gus put me in handcuffs by the way. That’s way more Flowers in the Attic than I’ve ever wanted to picture. People get boring. You aren’t boring, though. If you didn’t let me get under your skin as much as you do you’d be stupidly amazing at your job. You’re funny and weird and uptight and attractive and grumpy and oddly endearing and have no patience and you don’t put up with my bullshit at all. And even more than that I trust you. And I don’t want to choke on something that could be this moon-shattering.”

“I think you mean earthshattering.” He said in an effort to avoid the fact that that was probably the nicest way anyone had ever described him even if half of it was somewhat insulting and Spencer’s staring at him like he doesn’t want to blink. Like he’s memorizing every inch of Carlton that he can get. 

“ Eh, I’ve heard it both ways.” Shaw-Spencer says half-heartedly. 

Carlton uncrosses his arms and closes the gap between him and Shawn and lightly pushes the younger man against the wall. He goes easily, willingly under Carlton’s hands. Carlton can feel Shawn’s breathing speed up and he looks flushed. Then he’s tilting Shawn’s head up, stubble rough against his hands where they rest on his jawline, but Shawn’s lips are soft under his and more than eager. 

It’s not the best of first kisses, objectively, its awkward, and terrifying and something he’s fantasized about and then pushed deep down under the anger and Catholic Guilt he carries around. And Carlton’s mind is already racing envisioning his career going up in flames and having to actually apologize to his Mother at some point. But there’s a spark and a desire he’s never felt before as Shawn sighs into his mouth and he doesn’t want to stop. 

So he doesn’t. Things don’t often go his way so he’s going to take what he can get when it does. At some point Shawn pulls him closer, hands resting and twisting in Carlton’s belt loops with a firm grip.

Finally Carlton takes a half step back, giving Shawn a bit of space that he can’t take for himself because Carlton’s been pressing him tight against the living room wall. 

“We’re going to need to talk about this.” Carlton says, running a hand through his hair, and backing up a bit more. 

Spencer is still slumped against his wall. Color in his cheeks and slightly swollen lips, t shirt that was even more wrinkled than his clothes normally were. He looks rather debauched.

“Fine. If we are going to do the whole feelings and responsible adult gig thing. I need ice cream. Possibly an ice cream donut sandwich topped with churros. Or sprinkles. I’m not picky.” 

“I have about 3.0 oz left of vanilla bean left in my freezer. You can have about half of that.” Says Carlton, turning towards the kitchen and trying to sound like his normal self. 

“that’s just embarrassing, Carlytoons.” Spencer says from close by as he follows Carlton into the kitchen and flops down in one of the chairs. 

“You’re free to leave.” He says as he opens on of the cabinets and takes down two bowls and then two spoons from the utensil drawer. “if my ice-cream selection doesn’t meet your high standards. “

“That’s the last thing I want to do because you might not let me back in if I do.” 

“If you flailing around my crime scenes like an idiotic brat hasn’t completely put me off you, I don’t think that fact that we just made out in my living room will.” 

Shawn looks down at the minuscule amount of ice cream in front of him in mock horror before eating it in two bites and Carlton has to force back a smile. He refuses to start finding the man endearing despite the warmth that curls through his chest as he looks at Shawn. Well, at least he refuses to make it obvious because he still half wants to strangle the guy and not just in the fun way. Except for the fact that Shawn in danger was also something he couldn’t tolerate either. 

The taste of vanilla in his mouth, replacing the taste of Shawn’s mouth under his, reminds him that’s he hasn’t eaten anything except a handful of fries, a beer, a spoonful of ice-cream since mid morning. Suddenly he feels exhausted. It had been a very long day following a very long week of overtime and as he glances at his watch he realizes it’s almost nine. And Shawn’s just staring at him nervously fiddling with the spoon in his hands. 

“You hungry?”

“I’m always up for food.” 

“Chinese? There’s a place that delivers until midnight.”

Apparently everyone and their brother wanted Chinese that evening and the wait time for their food would be over an hour explains the harried sounding girl on the phone that stops every few seconds to yell in mandarin at someone in the background as she takes Carlton’s order. Which leaves Carlton in a bit of bind when he hangs up a few minutes later. Shawn’s still sitting in his kitchen and now they might actually have to talk, which despite being something they needed to do, isn’t something Carlton is up to handling with grace and clear decision making skills right now. But as he looks at Shawn, it possible he’s not alone with that feeling. Shawn’s rubbing the sides of his head like he had been at lunch and his migraine is probably back with a vengeance between the shooting range and the emotional whiplash of the last half hour. 

So he decides to strategically retreat, or if O’Hara was here to call it ‘run like a coward’ from his feelings. 

“I’m going to hit the shower before the food comes.” 

“Cool. I’m going to snoop through all your personal belongings and eat whatever edible food I can find while waiting for the real food.” 

“Spencer-“ 

“I’m kidding. I’m gonna be out on your porch with the glass of water or coke you’re about to offer me.” 

“Did you want a shower too.” 

Shawn’s eyebrows shot up and he looked like someone had smacked him in the face for a moment.

“Not like that.” Carlton snaps. “Not with me. The hall way bathroom has a shower stall. I've got old clothes around here that you can change into if you like.”

“Sure. Thanks?” Shawn still looks a little gobsmacked but is recovering.

Carlton flees-and this time it’s definitely fleeing- to his bedroom to grab a spare towel, an old police charity t-shirt, and a pair of sweatpants. Before returning to hand them over to a now bemused Spencer and fleeing once again. 

There’s no concern about leaving enough hot water for Spencer because Carlton takes his ice cold and quickly before his brain decides to start imagining Spencer wet and soapy just feet away. 

Spencer still beats him back to the kitchen. The T-Shirt fits well enough, if a bit long. But the sweatpants are quadrupled rolled on his legs to avoid tripping over the hem. Shawn looks younger than his 30 years, hair wet and unstyled, wearing his ill fitting clothes. 

“I was going to wait in your living room, but honestly the room gives me the heebie jeebies without you and your fondness for carrying guns around to fight off danger. The whole being held at gun point thing apparently is harder to get over than I thought. Lets not get started on how twitchy I’ve been since Yang.” 

Words have never, and probably will never be his strong point, at least when it comes to emotions. So instead Carlton stands next to him, puts an arm around his shoulders and pulls Shawn in close to his side. Carlton glimpses a fleeting look of shock on Shawn’s face before the so-called physic takes advantage and cuddles in closer and hides his face in the curve of Carlton’s shoulder. He’s never going to get tired of throwing Spencer off his game. 

It’s odd. Carlton’s used to women, their curves usually a bit softer, a bit shorter in height, distinct lack of facial hair rubbing against his skin. 

Shawn’s got a decent amount of muscle tone, and broader shoulders than anyone else he’s ever held like this and he tentatively pats the man’s back with his free hand. Carlton hopes to god Spencer is feeling as awkward as he is.

The door bell startles both of them, Spencer’s head popping the bottom of Carlton’s jaw as he jerks up. 

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” He says shortly, disentangling himself from Shawn and moving to answer his door.

He’s even more curt with the delivery boy, who is probably undeserving of his temper unless he’s recently been speeding or committing some other misdemeanor on the way over. Then it’s 100% justified. He still tips him though. 

Spencer is kind of hovering in the kitchen like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. 

“I have a TV in my bedroom. We could watch something in there while we eat?”

“You don’t strike me as a man who eats food in bed, Lassie.” 

“I’ll make an exception.”

“Or the type of man that makes exceptions.”

“Spencer.”

“You know I just enjoy getting a rise out of you right? You got all demanding and handsy what with the manhandling me around the station.”

“Just grab some plates, would you?”

Turns out Spencer was right, which is how they both ended up on the floor at the foot of his bed, takeout boxes nestled in a baking tray that had never been used to protect the floor, and their plates perched on their laps as an episode of Cops played across the screen. 

Carlton lounged surprisingly comfy against the bed frame and some pillows he had grabbed and watched as Shawn started packing up the left overs carried them out. He could hear the sound of the fridge door and took the time to get up, stretch, toss his pillows back on the bed, and hit the head. 

By the time he was out of the bathroom, Shawn was leaning against the bedroom doorframe and fiddling with his bike keys.

“Did you want me to head out? I know you got work tomorrow.” 

“I assumed you were staying after I let you shower here.”

“Sweeeet, man.” 

“Uh, there’s extra toiletries in one of the drawers.” He waved a hand towards the bathroom.  
.  
*.*.*.*.

Carlton tries to settle himself on his normal side of the bed as Shawn messes around in his bathroom for a few minutes. He’s pushing past exhausted into that weird hazy point where he’s almost got energy again and sleep won’t come easy. There’s been way too many ups and downs in the past 24 hrs for him to find anything to calm his mind. 

“I never knew cinnamon toothpaste did such a bad job of tasting like a cinnamon roll.” Says Shawn as he makes his way to the clear side of the bed and hides his hesitation as he gets in almost successfully. If Carlton hadn’t spent the last three years obsessing over the man’s detective skills and ridiculous actions he would have never noticed.

“It’s toothpaste, not a dessert.”

“Is it really too much to ask that it be both?”

Carlton hums noncommittally, then grunts and shifts as Shawn practically lays on top of him. He reaches up a hand and cards it through Shawn’s still damp hair before on a whim he gives a light tug that makes Spencer suck in his breath sharply and press in close. 

“Unfortunately I really do have work in the morning.”

“You could use one of those sick days and or vacation days you almost never ever use. You’ve got what, a year or two saved up?” 

He did get paid out a nice lump sum each quarter for unused vacation time but still. 

“And give Vick a heart attack when I call in? I think not.”

“Wow. And here I am a sure thing tonight-“

“Does that mean you won’t be a sure thing tomorrow then? Because you gave me a rambling speech just a few hours ago that sounded like this wasn’t a one off itch you want to scratch, and if you’re a quarter of the detective I think you are, you also know I’m incapable at being casual about concepts like this.” 

Shawn’s silent for a very long moment staring at him. Carlton still has a hand in his hair, and despite being the one putting the breaks on things for the evening is hard where he’s pressed against Shawn’s leg. 

“We’ll do the whole talking thing over dinner tomorrow then.” 

Shawn finally says, breaking his own silence and shifting so he’s no longer splayed all over Carlton’s body. Before he can fully back away Carlton does pull him down to kiss him again. He tastes faintly of the toothpaste Shawn found so disappointing, and Shawn looks like he just solved a case in record time, meet Val Kilmer, and grabbed jerk chicken with Gus. Thrilled and utterly pleased at the situation. 

Carlton’s in big big trouble. Goddamn it Spencer.


End file.
